


Codex Apsconditus

by fiertedubearn



Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas, The Musketeers (2014), d'Artagnan Romances (Three Musketeers Series) - All Media Types
Genre: (literally making babies), An Entire Lifetime Of Angst To Be Honest, Coming of Age, Diary/Journal, Dirty Thoughts, F/M, Family History, Gen, Heterosexual Sex, Letters, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Mentions of Prostitution, Mentions of miscarriage, Military Backstory, Missed Connections, Missing Scene, Multi, Nuns, Origin Story, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Period Typical Attitudes, Pre-Teen Angst, Road Trips, Scrapbooks, Slow Build, Teen Angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-19
Updated: 2017-11-08
Packaged: 2018-11-16 01:52:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 17,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11243886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiertedubearn/pseuds/fiertedubearn
Summary: Collected for the first time in a single tome, A History of the Musketeers Aramis and Porthos- found not in the Royal Library, nor the Memoirs of M. D'Artagnan or the Comte de la Fère; but in hidden archives, secret letters, and manuscripts once considered lost.(Set in the BBC Musketeers universe, just taking a lot of artistic license in regards to the novel and the real King's Musketeers.)





	1. Preface: An Account of Relations Between Paris and The Pyrénées

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Laughter in the darkness,  
> Whispers in the shadows.  
> I was there when the wall fell down,  
> I'll be there when the ocean rises.  
> Building castles of cans and bottles,  
> Drinking like they do in novels,  
> Know they'll catch me by and by,  
> But tonight you are my alibi.  
> Same old song that we all come from,  
> Faded stars in the air that we breathe,  
> In the earth, in the sea,  
> Thick as thieves, on our knees,  
> With an ocean in between."  
> \- 'Thick as Thieves', The Menzingers

M. Henri-Charles d’Herblay, a Pyrénée of noble birth, small military distinction, and of twenty-three or four years of age, was a man of surprising importance. Since the good king Henry IV had ascended to the throne in Paris, and brought along with him the kingdom of Navarre, all those with ties to the south were of particular interest to the Louvre. M. d’Herblay was regularly invited to the Court; and as such, was so concerned with national affairs that he could not join his father in his occupation- his father, who held the title of _abbé_. M. d’Herblay held apartments in Paris, upon the Rue Saint-Honoré, for in this period it was more prudent and inexpensive to own modest apartments than to pay for hôtel lodgings from time-to-time. That the apartments looked down upon the current incarnation of the Cour des Miracles had made the price especially reasonable.

M. d’Herblay was a pious man, but not entirely monastic; he had yet to marry, and d’Herblay the elder was more concerned with the daily comings-and-goings of his abbey than troubling himself with finding an appropriate marriage for his son, who, handsome as any young Gascon, and learnèd as any novitiate, would have no trouble in obtaining a good wife. Nevertheless, d’Herblay was a gentleman, and did not seek out mistresses at every occasion- of which there were many, due to the numerous fêtes and repasts held by those at court; he would often bid his good-night around ten o’clock, in order to rise at six in the summer and eight in the winter, as was his routine in the abbey.  


On the occasion of a certain Tuesday in October, M. d’Herblay rose with the dawn bell-toll and took a simple repast in his chambers. As he was not to attend the Louvre until ten o’clock, d’Herblay contented himself with a longer and leisurely walk to court; first along Rue Saint-Honoré, turning right onto Rue Saint-Denis, and then right again along the Quais that lined the Seine. He perceived that this gave him the opportunity to collect his thoughts, and present himself more gracefully, even at the cost of needing his boots brushed upon arrival. But we speak of this as a _certain Tuesday_ for good reason; the events that occurred upon that Tuesday were those that would change the course of M. d’Herblay’s life.  


He was not yet at the junction of Rue Saint-Honoré and Rue Saint-Denis, passing the district we now know as Les Halles but was then the location of the Cour des Miracles, when d’Herblay crossed paths with a young lady in a long blue cape; he perceived her to be of some twenty to twenty-two years of age, with a fair complexion, golden hair, and a sharp brown eye. She had a bourgeoise carriage, but, despite being long and fine, the hands of a woman who had worked for most of her life.  


“Good morning, madame,” said he, as was polite, if not customary, when crossing paths on an otherwise empty road. 

“Good morning, monsieur,” replied she, “though you need not call me _madame_ ; I am but a _mademoiselle_.” 

M. d’Herblay blushed tremendously, the tips of his ears turning a rosy pink. 

“My apologies, mademoiselle; I had perceived only that a lady of your-” 

“My? My what?-” 

“Your lovely countenance, mademoiselle, would have already married. Please, do pardon me.” 

“I pardon you, sir,” said she, with the prettiest smile d’Herblay thought he had ever looked upon. “That is a generous compliment, and so I shall pardon you.” 

“May I ask, then, mademoiselle,” said he, with a bow, the sort he would give to no less than a courtier, as now he guessed that perhaps she was one, “for your name?” 

“I am afraid that you would not know it, monsieur,” she replied, folding her hands into her cape fretfully, though she still smiled the smile of the care-free. “I am not from Paris; indeed, I am not from France.” 

“From elsewhere, you say?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Where are you from, mademoiselle?” We are reminded at this point, dear reader, that Gascons are an impatient lot, and this line of interview did not seem to be aggressive to his own ears. Thankfully, the young lady did not take offense to his behaviour for a second time. 

“I am from Spain, monsieur,” replied she, with a pride that would soon not be heard of within France for many years to come, “and so I am known also as _señorita_.” 

“Ah! From Spain! Then indeed, I shall call you señorita. It is not uncommon among the Pyrénése to address a young lady as such. And so what else, then, señorita, am I to call you?” 

The young woman was a clever sort, and, perceiving this man before her to truly be a gentleman, obliged him. 

“Estefana of Zaragoza, monsieur.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Writing like Dumas is super fun, but it won't read like this the entire way through.)


	2. On the Identity of the Mother of Aramis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (I realise this chapter is more-or-less original fiction, but for the sake of presenting a solid canon, and also all the accidental extra research I ended up doing, please enjoy.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _A missive from Isaac Francisco de la Piedra de Zaragoza to an unknown party, c. 1605_

Querido,

 

It has been far too long since I have last seen you- I have thought of you so often over the years. To be a Spaniard in France now is as dangerous as to be a Morisco in Spain, and I admit that I am not a brave man; I have kept so much of my every-day life a secret from you, and yourself from they, that the fear of being discovered triumphed over my affection for you, and I allowed my cowardice to get the better of me. I write to you now from Toscana, where I believe myself to be safe, and I hope that you can find it in your heart to return a message. I owe you a hundred-thousand apologies that I would spend the rest of my days writing, but for now, an explanation for my disappearance. Much of this story involves my dear niece, Estefana de la Piedra, as it was for wont of her safety that we left Zaragoza, and I, fool that I am, could not say no to her mother, as I could not find good reason to abandon two ladies upon the road that would not implicate myself, and in turn, your own self.

 

Of course, we never intended to leave Spain for France; or for anywhere, for that matter. Estefana especially had been perfectly content in Zaragoza, but children have the fortune of ignorance where adults may not. By all appearances she would be taken for _limpia sangre_ , but since Philip II took the throne there has been a surge of investigations into the descendants of _conversos_. We de la Piedras have no looks of a typical Morisco, I admit, except for a perhaps a great-grandmother who has long since passed away; but tales of expulsion and rioting reached Aragon in due course, and we- Estefana, her mother Doña de la Piedra, and myself- left Zaragoza quietly, on that cool spring morning in March, that being the morning after I last met you along the banks of the Ebro and we exchanged tokens of our fondness for one another; I still possess the kerchief, querido, and I pray you still possess the locket; we left Zaragoza, they with little intention of returning, and myself with the heaviest of hearts. The journey was not arduous, though Estefana was at first unimpressed by the rustic accommodations we made along the way. She longed to return home, or at least to stay somewhere larger than a village.

 

We passed through Jaca to Pamplona under the guise of a pilgrimage along _el Camino de Santiago_ , and stayed briefly in Navarre, but Doña de la Piedra felt it would be safer to continue on into the French heartland. My sister-in-law had not travelled much, but she had a good instinct for such things, and I could not bring myself to disagree; and so we, the little family, visited San Sebastián for a Mass, and then slipped across the border to Saint-Jean-de-Luz. I had cobbled together an understanding of _euskara_ , as the Basque referred to their speech, and it served us through much of Gascogne. Estefana, as is common of so many in their youth, found the French language agreeable to her tongue within no time at all, and soon became our translator while we learned our necessary words.

 

We spent the summer heading ever further north, and eventually found ourselves in Tours. With our savings diminished to our last few pistoles, we took up apartments and found work. If you recall, in Zaragoza I had worked the kilns in a pottery; in Tours I had an apprenticeship within a smithy. A fire is a fire, it seems. Doña de la Piedra had been a seamstress- for that is how she first met, if you remember him, my dear brother Estefan, God rest his soul, as a seamstress in his clothiers’ rooms- and so a seamstress she was once again.

 

Estefana became a malcontent, for reasons I could never understand. Perhaps it was just one of those things ascribed to being not quite yet a grown adult; or at least, not a grown woman. Doña de la Piedra wished that she be accepted into a convent, as it would keep her both pious and busy. Having now seen there was a world outside of Zaragoza, Estefana’s idle thoughts turned to travel for travel’s sake, always wishing to go hither-and-thither and asking about England and so forth- this did not please the Doña, as it was, as far as she was concerned, unbecoming of a young lady to be so dandyish. Having had no wife or daughter of my own, I could not comment in good faith; and as you already know, I am a poltroon. We arranged for a repast with an abbesse, and hoped that this would work out well for all parties. In truth, it was the opposite, and the next morning we awoke to find Estefana had fled not just our home but Tours entirely, taking only what few possessions she owned, and five pistoles from our purses. I understood then, perhaps more than ever, what I myself had put you through all those years ago.

 

The Doña became gravely ill, from a wounded heart, and so I took it upon myself to try and find Estefana to heal it. The most any-one in Tours could tell me was that she had left via the north road. From this I believed she had run away to Paris, and not England. This was in itself a relief, for England is a country full of Protestant scoundrels that would most likely have persecuted the poor girl. Through the master at the smithy, who had correspondence with fellow masters in the capital, I tried to enquire of her whereabouts. She may not have looked Morisco, but she would have been picked for a Spaniard in a crowd quite easily, especially when she spoke; she was perhaps fluent in the French now, but had retained the accent of her mother tongue.

 

Months passed and we heard nothing. Doña de la Piedra took up the habit of a nun herself, and I saw little of her from then on; she remained in the chapel whenever she was not doing her duties, and was always found in prayer. I was terribly alone, and took to drink and dice to pass the time so that I would not be the sole occupant of our empty nest for all of the night. Thankfully I play well and never found myself in much debt, or in bad company. I confess even that I considered seeking out a _bardassa_ , as they are referred as here in Toscana (I believe the word is similar in both French and Spanish), but I could not bring myself to defile my memory of you with the body of another; I have remained faithful to you in my exile.

 

Strangely, though, it was through the convent here at Tours that we eventually unravelled the mystery of young Estefana, many years after her disappearance. I do not wish to imply that all nuns are gossips, for they are devout women who do not abscond from the service of the Lord, but it was through the chatter of young Sisters on a pilgrimage to some shrine or another, who rested for the Sabbath there at Tours, that the Doña- who now went by the name of Sister Jeanne- heard of a Spanish courtesan who had stayed awhile at the Hôtel Filles-Dieu, which were some kind of rooms held by fellow Sisters, and with child, no less! At first, Jeanne gave it no mind, but the conversation persisted until she had no doubt it could be any-one other than her Estefana, for the woman in question was of the same age and colouring, and still had a peculiar enough accent to make comment on.

 

A courtesan with a bastard! Why, Jeanne nearly thrashed the poor girls for speaking in such a way. Instead, she came to me and confided what she had learned. She charged me with visiting her, as she could not leave her duties, nor bring herself to face the shame of having Estefana run so foul of her morals. I asked for furlough at the smithy the very next day, and set upon the road to Paris. I stopped only to rest in Orléans to rest the horses and pay my respects to Jeanne d’Arc.

 

What I learned from enquiring at the Hôtel Filles-Dieu is what Sister Jeanne had dreaded, and it was indeed our dear Estefana, or a very good impersonator, who had been in their rooms. They referred to her only as a courtesan because her most devoted patron was often at court, and in fact she lived not more than a street or so away in the ‘Cour des Miracles’, a dreadful shanty and den of thieves as they would have me believe. Indeed, it was crawling with beggars and whores, cripples and heretics- every illness of the body or mind one could imagine! An awe-some sight, yes, but a thoroughly unpleasant one.

 

I did not introduce myself to Estefana, for fear of her taking flight once more, but I spied her from twenty paces on the fringes of the horrid little court; she was sitting with a gentleman of Gascon appearance who seemed to be either a noble or a man of the cloth, I could not tell. They appeared very fond of one another, and I perceived that this must be her best patron that I had heard about, and perhaps even the father of the bastard. Estefana had a weary countenance, but still seemed animated in her conversation, and she was dressed far more nicely than any-one I had seen in the court, with a clean face and head of hair; in her arms was the infant that had been so talked about. Bastard it may have been, but I wished desperately to look upon the child! I gathered my wits and left before I could make a fool of myself, and then, having seen all I had been charged to see, returned to Tours to give Sister Jeanne the unfortunate news. I did not see much of her at all after the fact.

 

The folk of Tours were soon in ill spirits towards the Spanish, as became the case across much of France. Sister Jeanne refused to leave the convent, and even now I can only pray that her fellow Sisters protect her from grievances. I paid my bills, gathered my things, left what money I could for the church, and left France for Italy, where I had heard there was plenty of work for all sorts of crafts-men, and I could find both employ and a degree of anonymity. Since then I have lived in Toscana, under the name of simply ‘Isaac Francisco’, which is not too uncommon as to call attention; but should you ever wish to seek me out, I am in San Gimignano, about a day’s travel south of Firenze. I would welcome any sign of your acknowledgement as if it were a sign from the Lord Himself.

 

Be safe and know you are in both my prayers and dreams,

Your once-beloved,

IF de la Piedra.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... by picking a place in northern Spain at random it turns out I wrote myself into a tight corner, but several hours of being stuck down in a Wiki-hole and Google Books later, I now know far more about 1500s Spain than I did before (which was not much outside of 'imperialism sure seems like a fun way to a pass the century'), so there's that. 
> 
>  
> 
> Also, the boys turn up next chapter, which means time for _antics_.


	3. A Truth Revealed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to 'Dumas', just for a moment...

Estefana of Zaragoza had found herself an esteemed patron in M. d’Herblay, against all probability. Not long into their knowing of one another, he had asked if she would like a token of their friendship; we must be reminded that while M. d’Herblay was not looking for a wife, he enjoyed the company of women, and this Estefana was truly a rare creature in her aptitude for all things in life. They were taking their luncheon together in what had become their usual spot--a tavern near M. d’Herblay’s apartments-- and Estefana was greatly surprised by his forthcoming request.

“Monsieur!” cried she, “if you wish to ask for my services, please do spare me this little game you play.”

“A game? I play no game with you, señorita,” he murmured, trying to soothe the sudden temper of his companion. He pressed her hand gently upon the table, and continued with his usual sincerity. “I ask only because it is terribly bad manners to assume a lady should want any-thing of this nature from a friend. I should not want you to think that I would make any kind of inappropriate advance upon you.”

Estefana reclined into her dining chair, but did not pull away from the gentleman. 

 

“Oh, my dear monsieur. I should have known better than to think you would do such a thing.” She smiled her sweet, clever smile at him, and pressed his hand between both of her own. “You are a man of good morals and pleasant conversation, after all. I am fond of you, sir, and because of my fondness, I forget there is a great deal about myself that I have yet to tell you.”

“Then please, Señorita, know that you have my confidence. I would not betray anything you entrusted to me.”

“Ah! You say this, sir, but you know not what I might speak of. That is a bold promise to make.”

D’Herblay looked upon her lovely face, drawn tight with worry, and sought with all the kindness in his heart to bring her peace of mind.

 

“Señorita, I do not believe there is anything you could say that would make me think less of you. You are a fine young woman, and a Catholic, and bear no marks of crimes against the Crown; nor have you mentioned any suitors that may misunderstand our friendship and take me to be a rival worth challenging.” He looked about the street, and laughed to himself. “Though, should a gentleman challenge me, I would defend your honour nonetheless.” 

 

This made the young lady’s countenance soften, though she still gave him a very sad look.

“Sir, I would tell you a truth you deserve to know, so that you do not think I am deceiving you. But I would not wish to tarnish your reputation by doing so in public. Is there a more private spot we may speak at?”

“Of course, Señorita, of course. My apartments are barely thirty paces from here and I do not have a lackey; we would be able to speak in complete confidence.” M. d’Herblay paid for their repast, and, offering out his arm, led Estefana back to his lodgings.

 

D’Herblay’s apartments were furnished simply, but very comfortably. His belief was that it did not hurt oneself to allow an occasional pleasure, especially if it brought him greater satisfaction in his every-day life. In this case, the pleasure was that of soft linens and cushions in the Spanish style upon his chaise; if he could sleep deeply and comfortably upon a nice bed, he would be all the more pleasant for it the next day. M. d’Herblay did not think that an ascetic life would make one a better servant of the Lord; for the best acts of His will were undertaken in the smallest of moments, and a man who had slept poorly in a bare crib of straw, to prove his devotion, would not notice these moments as they passed.

 

Estefana settled herself upon the chaise, and M. d’Herblay knelt before her, taking her hand in his. She sighed a terrible sigh, and began to cry. 

“Oh, my God! my God!” she wept. It startled M. d’Herblay so much he nearly lost his balance. “You shall think so poorly of me after I have revealed my truth, I know it! but I have promised you this revelation. I ask that when I am finished, that you pardon me- and if not pardon me, then let me leave your house freely.”

He produced a handkerchief from the pocket of his doublet, and made to wipe away her tears.

“Monsieur, I have not ever intended to deceive you, but I believe my omission of the truth may lead you to think I had. So I shall be frank with you. I am a courtesan, sir- I am a harlot.” 

 

“Dear Señorita, I applaud your courage, and I promise you that I still think no less of you,” said he, “you are a kind and intelligent woman, and many men do not see cleverness as befitting of the fairer sex. Opportunities that may lie on the path of men may not lie on the path of women; I cannot judge a woman for making the best of her circumstances. It would be cruel to do so, and the God I believe in stands for love, not cruelty.”

Estefana went pale with shock, and would have fainted upon the chaise had she been of a weaker constitution. 

“You would pardon me for my sins, monsieur?”

“On the contrary, I do not consider them sins in the first instance. I imagine you must offer a great deal of companionship to those who go without. That is a gift, and a blessed virtue.” He kissed the back of her hand tenderly. “Know that I still wish to be your friend and confidante; I care for you very deeply.” 

The young lady wept openly once more.

“You are a generous man as always, sir. I am fortunate to have you as a friend.”

 

The church-bells tolled two o’clock, and M. d’Herblay rose from his knees. 

“I am sorry to leave you in such a state, Señorita, but I am expected back at court at two-thirty.” He produced a key from around his neck, and handed it to her. “Please, keep this on your person, and know you may retire here whenever you wish. It is my spare key; I have no use of it otherwise, and I would be satisfied to know you had a place in which you could find solitude if you required it.” He kissed her hand once more, and was out of the door before she could say a word.

 

Estefana passed the rest of the day in M. d’Herblay’s rooms, sleeping upon his chaise until she could regather her spirits. While their conversation had alleviated a great deal of worry from her brow, she could not bring herself to leave; that, and the cushions were very inviting. When she awoke, it was past sunset, and the room was half in shadow. Perceiving where she was took little time, and to herself she thanked her companion for allowing her stay. The other side of the room was lamp-lit, and a man that could be no other than M. d’Herblay was sitting at a desk, composing a letter of some sort. Not wishing to alarm him, she let her step fall heavy upon the floorboards as she stood. M. d’Herblay turned to face her, lamp in hand. 

 

“My apologies for not waking you, Señorita, but it seemed that you needed the rest, and I did not wish to disturb you.”

“It is all right, sir. I did not have any-” and she paused, looking at her hands, which were folded in her lap, “ _ appointments  _ to attend today.”

M. d’Herblay blushed furiously, and was incredibly thankful for the poor lighting. 

“Ah, my apologies again, then, my dear, for I did not consider that. I hope I have not put you at any disadvantage-”

“You are forgiven, monsieur, all is perfectly well.” 

D’Herblay lit the rest of the lamps in his apartments, and the walls all had a rosy glow to them. 

“I do not intend to speak out of turn, and you are not obliged, or under any oath, to answer,” he began, still pink in the face, “but what is expected of a courtesan?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Next chapter, Henri-Charles learns a thing or three.)


	4. The Education Of The Abbé In The Earthly Delights

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _An excerpt from ‘Les Poèmes Satyriques du Clergé’, a collection of erotic verses written c.1600-15, with this particular edition printed c.1617. While the characters depicted are considered fictional, these works were commonly satires upon contemporary scandals. Given the date of publication, and the details of the personages within, this verse in particular may well refer to the affairs of M. Henri-Charles d’Herblay and his lover, Estefana de la Piedra de Zaragoza._
> 
> _“The Abbot’s Son left for Paris,_  
>  In the duty of King and Country.  
> Monsieur was considered a Bachelor,  
> But sought neither Wife nor Mistress.  
> He would yet return home,  
> To take his Father’s title,  
> Though know this, my Loves,   
> His Deeds did not go unnoticed. 
> 
> _‘Tis true his Faith did not stray,_  
>  Oft true that Men are Tom-cats.  
> All Men of the Cloth are Scholars,  
> And all Scholars seek knowledge.  
> Monsieur did then discover,  
> By means of a Courtesan,  
> Not all can be learned,  
> From the Books of the Lord. 
> 
> _Cupid had struck Monsieur,_  
>  In the head and the heart.  
> A fine Spaniard filly,  
> Of golden hair and many tongues.  
> He who prayed each night,  
> Found himself a new Altar.  
> In the arms of his Lady Love,  
> And the legs of his Lady Love.” 

Gascons are not a prudish lot, but Paris is ignoble to those ignorant of its ways. Henri had never before met a courtesan, and a combination of his forthcoming nature and embarrassment left him deeply frustrated. He stood as still as he could in an attempt to calm himself, but even with a face flushed deep red he could not take his eyes away from Estefana’s. She laughed but not cruelly, and held a hand out to him. Henri crossed the room to her, and knelt at her side once more.

“My dear Monsieur, do you really not know? Upon my word, you truly are a gentleman.”

Flustered, Henri frowned and shook his head.

“Well, you know that I was raised the son of an abbé. Such things were... not discussed in our company.”

“Then I know that you ask me this in earnest, and not as a trick or taunt.”

“I would _ never _ speak so, Señorita.”

Satisfied by his honesty in all things, Estefana took his hand in both of hers and pressed it affectionately. 

“Then I shall tell you all you like.”

 

The candles burned down to their stubs as the two sat together, Henri on the floor at Estefana’s side like a loyal hound. She described to him all the kinds of flirtation and foreplay in her arsenal, and, in delicate terms, a few of her more common services. 

“Do you enjoy it?” he asked quietly; looking at her hands and silently scolding himself for wondering how skilful they were.

“Not always. Some men are incredibly boring.” Estefana tapped him gently on the forehead. “No imagination, you see; or no interest in more than their personal fill.”

“They,” he started, and swallowed so that his tongue felt less dry in his mouth, “they do not care to please you?” Henri frowned again. “It does not seem fair, or polite.” He looked up at her lovely face, as golden as her hair in the candlelight. “I admit that I wouldn’t know where to begin, but if a woman is so generous with herself… money alone should not be adequate compensation.”

“Then you are, once again, one of the most generous of your kind. When you procure yourself a wife, sir, she will be a lucky woman.”

Henri murmured a laugh. “Well, I have yet to meet a lady so patient as to marry the son of an abbé for love.”

“Oh, Monsieur! You are young, and handsome, and always at court. Have you really no sights upon any-one?”

“I suppose I do not.” He bit his lip, deep in thought for a moment. “I believe, dear friend, I have yet to meet a lady at court who  _ matches _ you for any aspect, never mind one that exceeds you.”

 

Estefana’s face coloured at this revelation; the pair were often very complimentary of one another, but this was an admission close to that of a lover’s. Henri had not once mentioned anything of the sort, outside of a mutual friendly admiration, and she found herself speechless. She fell back against the chaise in a moment of sudden weakness, and he drew up to comfort her. 

“Señorita, are you well?” Henri rested the back of his hand on her rosy cheek, as if she had caught a fever.

“I am all-right,” she replied, and turned her head to face him, crouching nervously beside her. “You are a treasure, sir.” Estefana touched his face gently, fine and world-worn hands cupping his jaw. “You are my dearest companion.”

Henri could do nothing but blush and look away, terribly self-conscious of his behaviour, but neither could he make himself leave Estefana’s side.

“Come, then,” said she, combing her fingers into his hair, “I will teach you how to please a woman.”

 

The midnight bells tolled in the city, far from quiet in the street where Saint-Honoré met Saint-Denis. Cats yowled and dogs barked, and patrons of all sorts bickered and joked, but all of this lay beyond the closed windows and shutters of M. d’Herblay’s apartments, and may has well have been happening in Germany, for all that M. d’Herblay cared for it. Estefana had removed Henri’s boots, doublet and breeches, and he sat on the end of his bed in his linen shirt and braies; eternally thankful for the warm and waning candlelight for disguising just how flushed and nervous he was. She was still fully dressed, in a bodice, gown, and petticoat, and a pretty ribbon in her hair; taking off her little shoes, she stood in front of him.

“Take care when removing a lady’s trappings, unless instructed otherwise,” she advised, and climbed into his lap. She took both of his hands carefully in her own and guided them to the fastenings of her dress.

 

“I’ll make a fool of myself if I can’t see what I’m doing,” he mumbled, trembling and blindly feeling for the laces and hooks.

“Then do not hurry. No two garments will be the same.”

“And if she finds herself bored?”

“Distract her.” Estefana tucked her hair behind her ears, revealed all the fair skin from throat to décolletage, and brought him closer. Henri kissed her neck, deliberately slow, and mindful not to leave a mark upon her. The last fastening of her bodice came loose, and he removed it with all the care one would put down a fine porcelain cup, setting it upon the bed next to them. Estefana’s gown was of the kind of linen draped about her frame that made Henri think of Aurora, or Prosperine, or even Venus Herself. She knelt up and drew his hands under her skirts to remove her petticoat; he gasped quietly against her shoulder at the coolness of her thighs. Estefana pressed her nose into the parting in his hair, thick and hat-tousled, and gave his curls a precious kiss, before lifting her gown over her head.

 

Henri held Estefana by the hips and she embraced him loosely about his shoulders, grooming his hair like a horse’s mane. His breath was hot against her skin, face buried in her chest as if he were in prayer. She sat back to look at him, and he whispered a curse as the movement stirred his loins. Henri was half-hard in his braies already, and he had barely touched her. Estefana held his face in her hands, tilting his jaw up to face her.

“What would you like first?” she asked, a playful, sing-song, note in her voice. 

“Whatever pleases you most,” he answered.

“It pleases me, then, to have your certainty. You may touch where you like, my dear, as long as you stop when I command it.” Estefana gave him a chaste kiss, and let her arms fall to her sides, sitting perfectly content astride her companion. Henri was hesitant, even with all his Gascon courage, tracing the soft lines of her body with the gentlest of touches. She smiled down upon him like an angel, radiant and powerful and as sweet as ever. He cupped her breasts and kissed them; tentatively took a rosy pink nipple between his lips, and grazed it with the bare edge of his teeth. Estefana sighed quietly, and he looked up in deference to her; she carded his hair between her fingers and kissed his forehead as a means of praise. His hands traveled lower again, and he stroked her legs where he could reach with the flat of his palms, thumbs running along the insides of her thighs; he was hard under her now, straining against the lace of his braies.

 

“Let me show you something,” Estefana said softly, pulling Henri out of his reverie. She reached down between her legs with one hand, palming over her pubic mound, and with her long, fine fingers, parted her labia, exposing herself fully. She teased back the hood of her clit and caught Henri’s gaze. “Be gentle, and you can use your mouth.”

Henri was cautious, for fear of harming his dear Estefana, but rolled her over until she lay on her back, and let her make herself comfortable, draping her knees over his shoulders. He kissed the underside of her breasts, her belly, hips, thighs; she pulled on his hair but not hard, more as if she were just testing the tension of the action. He treated it as a command, and pressed his mouth against her cunt, nosing the soft pale hair between her legs. Estefana’s thigh twitched against his neck, and again when he gave her an experimental taste. Henri’s tongue laved against her, and into her, and she pulled his face deeper with two fistfuls of thick brown curls when he suckled her clit as he’d done with her breast; he panted quietly, the stubble on his jaw beginning to itch. 

 

So dedicated to Estefana was he, that he had managed to ignore his own needs for some time, but not for much longer. He came up for breath, head resting on her belly and leaving a long sticky swipe where his mouth trailed. 

“Here, come here,” she cooed, pulling him up and kissing him tenderly, tasting herself on his tongue. Estefana untangled her hands from his hair and undid his braies, pushing them down past his thighs. She slipped a hand into her cunt and used her wet palm to slick up his cock, and Henri thrust into her gentle grip. “Wait,” and she guided him inside her, and held his hips close even with one hand struggling for purchase. Henri moaned into her hair, cradling her back and shoulders in his arms. Despite all his innocence he fucked like a seasoned lover; a dedicated lover, genuine in his desire. He came with a soft cry into her throat, and Estefana ground up against her dearest until she’d chased her own wave, an orgasm that crawled from her belly to the tips of her toes. 

 

The last candle snuffed itself out, having burned through the night. Henri pulled the blankets out from under them with a small amount of struggle, which made Estefana laugh. She slept soundly in his arms, and he slept through the bell-tolls of both dawn and Mass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (NGL, I've not written het smut in a very, v-e-r-y long time...)
> 
>  
> 
> Next time on _Days Of Our Early Modern Lives_ : a pair of friends meet, for the first but definitely not the last time, I think you know who I'm talking about.


	5. On The Fraternity of Bastards and Juveniles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _♪ Know they'll catch me by and by,  
>  But tonight you are my alibi. ♪_

The years that would pass the first night of this extra-ordinary pair of companions were not the cruellest, but neither the kindest. M. d’Herblay received a messenger at his door the very next morning, informing him that his father, the Abbé, had fallen gravely ill; and he was to return to the Pyrénées at once. M. d’Herblay would attend court at Paris and see his companion Estefana, who more or less lived in his apartments and kept them in good condition, as often as he could; but as he soon learned, the trials of running the abbey took up a tremendous amount of his time. M. d’Herblay had managed to visit Paris only half a dozen times or so before the events known to us as scholars and curious folk.

 

Estefana would write to him here and there, and he would write back; but sending messages to and from the mountains was a difficult affair, and part of the reason why M. d’Herblay had so often visited the capital in person in the past. He learned within days of his father’s passing that the lovely Estefana was with child, and despite the nature of her profession, was quite sure he was the father. This was not out of some trick or ploy by the Spaniard, for she knew that Gascons, even those of the cloth, were not wealthy folk; she would find no benefit in holding the Abbé’s son- nay, in fact, now the Abbé himself- for a ransom. And this, of course, is not to say that our dear Estefana would do such a thing to her most intimate of friends; she would never dream of it.

 

Abbé d’Herblay sent orders of pistoles when he could, insisted that Estefana keep residence in his rooms, and promised her that the moment he could take furlough from his new position, he would visit her and the child. As it was, he did not return for the child’s birth, but received word from a small troupe of lay sisters- who were passing through Béarn to bring certain supplies and manuscripts down from the north, to what had once been Navarre and was now France- that a pretty Spaniard had left the care of Les Filles-Dieu all the way up in Paris, and it was speculated that the father had been some sort of clergyman. It was a snatch of gossip that had spread from Paris to Tours, Tours to Limoges, Limoges to Toulouse; and now from Toulouse to Gascogne. Abbé d’Herblay knew that it could be no other than his Estefana, but did not mention any hint of suspicion. Some few months later, the Abbé found reason to leave Béarn for Paris; he explained it away as some conference or another with an ambassador of the Holy See.

 

The child was a boy, and Estefana had named him René du Saint-Honoré; he was a bastard, and so could not inherit his father’s name of the house of d’Herblay, and tension between France and Spain had led her to omit her own family name from her son’s. René was as lively as any infant, with all the sweetness of his mother in his face, and his father’s colouring. Abbé d’Herblay was besotted with the little boy, barely old enough to crawl and already growing a head of thick brown curls upon his precious crown. Such was the case that an Abbé could never marry a harlot, let alone a Spanish one at that, as much as it pained him. Estefana showed less concern, but that may well have been her kind countenance masking her true feelings from the Abbé, who was struggling to bear the burden of being Abbé as it was. She had a safe home and a small income, and the women she worked with on Rue Saint-Denis would take care of one another’s children without complaint; this was a life Estefana had known much longer than her companion had known his, and did not appear to be as shocked by the events as he. It was always a possibility, she explained, and was not uncommon at all. 

 

Still, the Abbé promised that the boy would always be welcomed in Béarn, as was his mother; Estefana considered it deeply, but in truth, both friends knew she would never find happiness outside of the vast and vibrant cities she best liked to live in. She wished to keep René for as long as she could, as he was beloved by so many, especially by herself; but if the time came, she would send for his collection from Paris. And so René grew up fatherless, but far from without family; a bastard whore-son raised on the crossing of Saint-Honoré and Saint-Denis who still learned his letters, kept his manners, and made friends of any sort, for he knew even from a tender age that the prejudices amongst men made for a lonely life. And it was because of these particular circumstances in which he was raised that he would meet a boy who would never truly leave his side for the rest of his life, in heart if not in body.

 

René was a curious and clever child, and the Cour des Miracles was nothing short of a city in itself to him. When he was not helping the women sew, or brush their hair, or wash their linens, he would venture through the Court on his own imagined adventures; he was seven-or-eight years old when he first crossed the path of Porthos, a boy not much younger than himself. René, and his companion, a girl named Pauline who was often referred to as a cousin of sorts, had been watching a cluster of children learning ‘magic tricks’- which he would realise in time were to be the primary skills of thievery and pick-pocketing- from a woman who was perhaps not much older than their mothers, but looked as though she had lived a far more difficult life. Out of the gaggle fascinated by the woman’s sleight-of-hand, three individuals seemed more conspiratorial than the rest; a fair haired girl that reminded René a little of both Pauline and his mother, and two boys, who looked nothing at all like one another. The first had a close-cropped scalp, high cheek-bones even as a child, and dark skin; the second had a crown of black lamb’s curls, lighter in complexion though he would still pass for a Moor. He learned their names in due course without ever having spoken to them, or perhaps even being seen by them; in order, they were Flea, Charon, and Porthos.

 

The women at the brothel had a good idea of every-thing that happened in the Cour des Miracles, and so, returning home in the late afternoon for an early repast before Estefana would send him home to their accommodations on Rue Saint-Honoré (for she would be busy for much of the night, and it would be unfair to a child to keep him awake, and unfair to the other women to keep him entertained), René asked of his mother who these three conspirators were. Estefana confessed that she did not know of Flea or Charon, but that Porthos’ mother had been a kind young woman named Marie-Cessette, who had passed away far too soon and left the boy as an orphan; that was presumably the case for the two other children that accompanied him. Orphans were not uncommon in the Court, and usually some-one or another would take charge of them as a shepherd takes charge of rogue sheep. Sometimes, they would be taken into the church by the Filles-Dieu, spirited away to convents and monasteries far from the reaches of Paris. René, much like his mother, believed that those who remained would lead a far more interesting life.

 

The Court stank like nothing else in the city in the middle of summer; the heat was almost unbearable, and made infinitely worse by the smell. It was René’s ninth summer, and there was only so much laundering of linen that could be done in the middle of the day, the wash-rooms thick with steam from soaking sheets and dresses. He hid upon a balcony that the Hôtel Filles-Dieu shadowed at noon, and set about braiding dandelions into Pauline’s hair. Pauline would tell him grand stories about princes and fine ladies, and all the things she dreamed were happening at the King’s Court; grand fêtes, gentlemens’ duels, and the details of every pretty gown upon every pretty woman. Pauline had never known any other Court than the one she lived in, but this did not dampen her imagination in the slightest. From his secret spot he could see a great many things happening in the Court, but had a particular foresight for knowing when the little band of conspirators would pass by. That it was usually preceded by a loud curse of an unfortunate merchant certainly helped with his apparent intuition. 

 

There had been some kind of clamour out of his view, and René saw Porthos separated from his companions in the fray. Seeing an opportunity to make real one of his day-dreams, he began to climb down from his hiding spot. 

“René!” whispered Pauline, looking over the edge of the balcony, “where are you going?”

“To rescue Porthos, of course,” replied he, scrambling across a low rooftop. “Run home, quiet as a mouse, and don’t tell my mother!”

 

Of course, for all his nimble-ness and bright spirit, René was not all that accustomed to getting into disagreements. He was a small, angelic-looking child, with all the manners and graces of a choir-boy. Upon finding Porthos cornered by a butcher with a large bone-cleaving knife, who appeared to have no qualms with “chopping up a mongrel to feed the other dogs”. René ran between the pair and knelt before the butcher, hands clasped as if in prayer.

“Monsieur, have mercy, I beg you.” He made the sign of the cross about his chest, and continued his plea. “He is the son of the governess of my aunt, Comtesse Beatrix de Sept-Saulx, and is unused to the ways of trade. He surely meant no harm, Monsieur, I pray you pardon him.” 

The butcher grunted and waved them off, stalking back to his  _ boucherie _ ; a handful of sausages was not worth the ire of a countess’ inconvenience. 

 

René dusted off his knees and turned to face Porthos, who promptly swung a small, fierce fist at René’s face. The punch connected poorly, but it was enough to knock him back onto the floor. 

“You dare say a false word about my mother again and I’ll have your tongue cut out! I’ll cut it out myself!” Porthos was livid, dark eyes glittering in the bright sun, jaw set tight. His curls sat like the mane of a young lion’s.

“He was going to chop you up! I couldn’t have that happen!” René considered standing up again, but did not wish to stir the boy’s anger any further. 

“You have no right to lie.” Porthos spat on the ground at René’s feet. “My mother belonged to no-one but herself.” He frowned, and looked about the thoroughfare; Flea and Charon had not returned, but at least the butcher had also left. “Are you really the nephew of a Comtesse?”

“Oh, not at all. I don’t think she is even a real person. It sounded very noble though, didn’t it?” 

This disarmed the young Porthos enough that he laughed, and offered a hand down to René to help him up.

 

“I meant no harm telling the story,” said René, righted once more, “it’s bad manners to say ill words about women.” (This was something he had learned from his mother at a very young age, and it had seemed to serve him well.) Porthos had a forlorn look upon his countenance, and it was then that René remembered what he had heard about Mlle. Marie-Cessette. “It was cruel of me to lie about your mother,” and hesitating as if he expected a second swing to his head, “when I know you are an orphan. I’m very sorry.”

Porthos frowned again, and shook his head.

“Don’t do it again, and I shan’t cut out your tongue.” 

René placed his hand over his heart, swearing an honest oath; he bowed the way he saw gentlemen bow in the street to one another. 

“I know that you are Porthos, but I don’t think you know me. I am René du Saint-Honoré.”

“I know you, René,” laughed Porthos, “you’re not as good at hiding as you think you are.” This made René blush in the same manner as his father, bright at the tips of his ears, which made Porthos laugh all the more. At least it was not an unkind laugh. “I’m going to find my lunch, _Renard_. They better not have eaten without me.” Porthos turned on his heel and began to run away. “Come and play with us, if _your aunt’s_ _governess_ allows you!”

 

René returned to the brothel to take lunch with his mother, Pauline, Pauline’s mother, and one or two of his other ‘aunts’. They had put together a pleasant repast of bread and cheese and smoked fish, weak wine for the children, and peaches that had been kept in the shade all morning. He wanted desperately to relate his adventure to his audience, but he had sworn Pauline to secrecy, and Estefana would have been quite furious with him for having stood in the way of a butcher’s knife, even if she would perhaps be proud of his reasons. 

“Maman, may I go and play with a friend this after-noon?”

Estefana cut a piece of cheese from the roundel. 

“Of course you may, but do any of the ladies need your help first?”

“ _ Anaïs _ ,” as Pauline’s mother fondly called her, “let the boy have his fun. We shan’t be doing much of any-thing in this heat.” 

“Perhaps,” replied Estefana, and waited until the children had left before finishing the conversation. “I know it is unfair to keep him so busy here, but,” she sighed, and speaking as if she were about to weep, “he will not be allowed to stay for much longer, and I wish to see him as much as I can before he must go. He’ll soon be too old to be wandering around these rooms; I want so badly to keep his beautiful face as fresh in my mind when-ever I can.”

 

René still learned his letters and kept house alongside the women; but at the moment he became free of duty, he would fly to the Court, Pauline fast at his heels. The seasons waxed and waned, and Pauline began to spend less time with René and the conspirators. She had never been fond of their stealing-games, as much as she had learned from them, and there was an expectation upon her at the brothel to care for new babies and attend the women more often. Pauline felt it was terribly unfair that René was not asked to do the same, but was only ever given answers along the lines of, ‘there’s work that’s only for women’s eyes to see, and you shall soon be a woman,’ or, ‘it would be foolish to have a boy playing maid’. For all that she had been raised in a whore-house, Pauline was blissfully ignorant of the insolence of adolescent boys.

 

Porthos’ twelfth summer had been a difficult one. He grew taller by the day, or so it seemed. Charon would taunt him for his sudden clumsiness, and Flea had a new aspect to her that he could not understand; the conspirators gave him no end of frustration, as much as he loved them. Even the boy he affectionately called  _ Renard _ had an air of distraction about him. Porthos was often shy of speaking; not through any lack of words to say, but for fear of speaking too freely of what he held in his heart. After all, he had learned to fend for himself from a tender age, and one’s survival often relied on resilience. He had never had a father, much less an extended family, and the loss of his mother still ached as much as a fresh wound, aching more for the realisation that she had been gone from his life longer than she had been alive in it. 

 

A balmy evening settled across the city from roof-top to cobble-stone, and Porthos found René in his usual watchtower, looking down upon the Court as lanterns were lit and musical troupes began their bawdy ballads. The two could still fit- just about- onto the little balcony ledge, side by side, a pair akin to the charges of The Chariot. René had a sombre countenance that seemed too old on such a little boy. 

“Porthos,” said he, gazing out past the Court, as if he could see as far as the Luxembourg, “I’m to leave Paris tomorrow.”

Porthos stared at him gravely; René’s expression did not change.

“You’re joking, Renard.”

“I promise you, I am not.” He would not meet Porthos’ eyes.

“Where are you going, then?” Porthos’ words were clipped, and if René had looked to him, he would have seen the boy willing himself not to cry.

“My father is taking me to his home in Béarn. I am intended to go to the seminary.”

“Your father hasn’t seen you in years, and he comes to steal you away?”

“Maman says it was agreed upon when I was a baby, that I would stay until…” René paused and rubbed his face with his sleeves. “Until it wouldn’t be right for a boy to live in a whore-house. I’ll go to school and join the church, I suppose.”

Porthos pressed his friend’s hand hard. 

“Must you go? You could live here, in the Court, with us.”

“I must.” Finally, he faced Porthos, and began to weep; Porthos could no longer hide his sadness, and wept also. René embraced him, in the clumsy and boisterous way which boys that were not yet men embraced. “Oh, Porthos! I swear I would stay, if I had the choice.”

“All men have a choice, Renard,” he mumbled, face pressed into René’s shoulder.

“Well, I’m not a man yet.” It was foolish reasoning, but René could muster no better an argument.

 

Porthos had never met his own father, and had perhaps seen the Abbé d’Herblay once in passing; René did not talk about him much at all. The fantasy that a patriarch could come along and take a boy into his care, far from the trouble and filth of Paris- to educate and turn one into a gentleman of worth and means- was merely that; it was a fantasy, and one he did not often allow himself to indulge in, as it was a hopeless pursuit. And yet, here was his dear friend, his Renard, a Spaniard whore-son bastard, being swept away by this very day-dream. That evening, as he wept for the loss of a companion, Porthos wept once again for the loss of his mother, and all kind creatures that seemed destined to be taken from him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _♪ Thick as thieves, on our knees,  
>  With an ocean in between. ♪_


	6. Correspondentia Diremptae, Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Excerpts from an unusual volume of letters bound together in a small book made from varying sizes of paper and vellum, c.1615-1617. The binding is in an amateur fashion and made from scraps. Upon first glance it could be considered the practice project of a novice scribe or illuminator, but its contents reveal otherwise. There is no pattern in the quality of the medium used within, but the letters appear to be chronologically ordered. Upon further inspection, the letters were intended to be delivered, and were collated at a later time._

To be delivered to M. Porthos via La Rose Floraison, 31 Rue Saint-Denis, Paris

 

(To the recipient, if not M. Porthos: please ensure he reads this, or at least has it read to him by some-one he trusts; preferably some-one who is familiar with M. de Zaragoza, alias Estefana de la Piedra, or perhaps Anaïs de la Pierre.)

  


Dearest friend Porthos,

I am writing to you on the road to Béarn where Abbé D’Herblay lives and works. I wonder if I am supposed to call him _mon père_ or _monseigneur_. I have been out of Paris for three days and should arrive in Béarn by the night of the fourth. My attendant is a lay brother from the abbey and is very boring. I hope this does not mean I am due a similar fate! It is pleasant to be out of the city, but very quiet, and I feel I am very alone. I miss you, and Maman and Pauline, and I wish that I could have brought my own company if I have been made to leave. Porthos, I will come back to visit whenever I can. I will learn to ride a horse and then take off in the night if I must. Be well, and I will see you soon!

-Renard

 

* * *

 

Dearest Porthos,

I am in Béarn and it is pleasant, but so very quiet compared to Paris. I have a room of my own at my father’s house and it is strange, I am not used to so much privacy! If I cannot escape to Paris soon, I shall send for you instead. Alas, we would not be able to get into very much trouble, on account of there is not much trouble to get into. My father has hired a tutor, so that I may learn ‘noble pursuits’, what-ever those might be.

-Renard

 

* * *

 

Dearest Porthos,

I have now learned to ride a pony. I think they are charming creatures, more stubborn or playful than any horse I have ever met. There is one in the stables, an Ariégeois, that reminds me fondly of you, for he is sweet-natured but mischievous at every opportunity. His name is Étienne, and he has strong legs that, when given the chance, shall carry me back to Paris in a matter of days, I am sure. I have not heard any-thing from any-one in Paris, so to be sure that you have been provided with the correct address: it is the Maison d’Herblay in Aramits, in the Barétous region of Béarn.

-Renard

 

* * *

 

Dear Porthos,

Papa has decided that I am to join the seminary. It promises to be nothing but boring, and I shall see even less of the world than I do already. I would argue that I do not belong in the church, but I do not get to see him often; such is the life of an abbé, it seems. I miss you deeply. The brotherhood of monks pales in comparison to that of our conspirators’. I have heard they pray thrice daily and so thrice I shall ask of God to watch over you. I am planning my escape as we speak, or should I say, as I write.

-Renard

 

* * *

 

 

Porthos,

I am watched over by Fathers and Brothers at all hours and I fear I am going mad! Prayer gives me time to myself, at least, and I have taken up reading and copying scripture as a means of being alone. If I am left to my own devices for long enough I write to you, as I do now. At least on market days I am allowed to go into town, though under strict supervision. There is a girl named Isabelle who is the daughter of some merchant or another and I am trying to make a friend of her. It is difficult in the shadow of so many cassocks at my back! I feel very much like a prisoner, Porthos. Next time I am able to see my father I shall beg him to release me.

-Renard

 

* * *

 

  
Porthos, or guardian thereof,

I do not know if my missives are reaching their intended recipient. Please give me a sign that they are.

-René du Saint-Honoré, alias René d’Aramits.

 

* * *

 

P-

I wonder what you look like these days. Are you still tall? Do you still have the hair of a lion’s? Do you know I still think of you?

-R

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short one, this time. More drama next chapter!


	7. The Portraits of M. d’Herblay, père et fils

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double update, just to clear things up a little bit. A _little_ bit, anyway.

The Abbé d’Herblay, for all that he had promised in earnest that he would raise the boy he had fathered, did not have much skill in parenting. His duties often kept him away from his son, and any relationship they may have fostered between them suffered for it. The boy, René, was well-mannered and kind-hearted, but grew more rebellious as the seasons passed. He had a sharp, inquiring mind, and his dear mother’s wit and charm, but by his fourteenth summer he became too unruly for his tutor, and was sent to the church. The Abbé saw this as a means of protecting the boy from danger, but the boy himself took it as a punishment. He had learned to slip away from his handlers, but found himself more watched than ever before.

 

René was an intelligent boy, but the Abbé had gone to great lengths to silence any rumours concerning the land south of the Pyrénées; he feared that his son had too much of his mother about him, coupled with his fondness for abscondence, and would be accused of being a Spanish spy. Though only passing glimpses of his dear son did the Abbé d’Herblay ever catch, he treasured them like nothing else, and he could not bear to lose any more of him than he already had.

 

Relations between Spain and France continued to struggle and mar. Responsible as he was for the Béarnais in his ward, and with all his due care to hushing whispers, the Abbé put himself in the terrible position of running a sort of interference on his own child. René would often try to send letters to Paris, all addressed to ‘M. Porthos’, and the Abbé was obliged to halt each one before it left Béarn, lest it fall into the wrong hands; he felt he did his son a kindness, at least, in not opening and reading them. It was a terribly cruel thing to do, and it pained him that he could confess his wrongs to no-one except the Lord Himself. He kept them all in a small cedar box amongst his personal things in the family home, hidden from sight, and took care in never mentioning news from Paris where the boy could hear.

 

In order to further protect René, the Abbé formally adopted him, and allowed him the title M. d’Herblay in his own right. This was an act meant to cover any stray ties that could ensnare the boy in an unjust plot, but it served a second purpose, both sombre and perhaps sinister, though this was never d’Herblay the elder’s intention. He had received word- in complete secrecy- that his beloved Estefana had been caught in a terrible fever, and though cared for by the ever-diligent Filles-Dieu, and in possession of a strong heart, had finally been granted peace by the Lord God after so many days and nights of suffering. The Abbé d’Herblay continued his works with as warm a countenance as he could muster, but Henri-Charles, who, behind his title and his duty was a mere man of flesh and blood as any of us are, wept inconsolably at every opportunity for solitude. René had so much of his mother in his quick, dark eyes; in his voice, which bore no Béarnais accent, but a musical cadence that placed him wholly as a Parisien; in his heart, full to the brim with every tale of derring-do and romance and hope that Henri could imagine her indulging her sweet boy with. He passed more than enough for a d’Herblay, yet Henri would look upon his son and see only his dearest Estefana, his kindest friend, his most loved of all women upon God’s great Earth. Henri would pray- would _beg_ \- forgiveness each night to his Lord God, for he could not bring himself to tell the truth to his son.

 

René, who had been styled differently so many times without much consideration for it, did not perceive any importance of being granted the name of _d’Herblay_. Having been named for his environs for so much of his life- on account of having no particular attachment to anyone of his own blood other than his mother, who so rarely used her family name to begin with- that he preferred to go by the name of René d’Aramits, and would introduce himself as such. The Abbé could not bear to challenge him, lest the truth be wrung from him, but made sure that he was in the abbey’s registry as being a d’Herblay son nonetheless.

 

Réne d’Aramits, now fifteen and remarkably self-assured in most aspects, took to escaping the thrall of his captors- a rather exhausted band of monks that could not keep up with a boy who had once only been called _renard_ in jest- as often as possible, and the friendship of the girl Isabelle that he had pursued over the years blossomed into a romance. He fancied himself a Pyramus, or a Tristan, a Lancelot, a chevalier kept from his true love; and fashioned verses for the girl in the manner of bards and classical poets at every rendezvous they dared upon. She had a fine face and a finer mind, and the young René was painfully in love with her, she who gave him all the affection he was so starved of since leaving Paris. However, as in all romances so bold and tragic, their trysts could only be kept a secret for so long. After a year of courting in the shadows and away from prying eyes, Isabelle found herself with child and could not hide the fact from her father for very long. The Abbé could not scold his son, for he himself had been no more virtuous aside from the great virtue of love; instead, he pleaded clemency, and reasoned that René would marry Isabelle and be a young, but kind, husband, and the mother and child would not go without. The marriage was all but arranged when yet another terrible fate- as are so many fates that mortal men must succumb to, by the whims of higher beings- befell the young bride-to-be; the child was lost, and all contact with Isabelle along with it. She had been whisked away to some convent far from Béarn at her father's behest; they would never again see each other, and that was that.

 

Nothing is certain in this world, it seems, and nothing would remain certain for many years to come. We can only hold, in our hearts, the hope that we can not just survive the turns of the Wheel of Fortune, but learn, and thrive despite all odds. This was not a sentiment that came easily to M. d’Aramits, but it would sustain him through the further, and ever wilder, events that would shape his life, and make him the man we know now as Aramis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise it gets a bit happier after this. Sort of. Promise!


	8. Porthos du Vallons

Porthos, who had not styled himself as anything other than Porthos, and so was only known by that name, stood as tall as the grown men either side of him in his infantry; fifteen years old and already filling out his uniform as well as the rest of his unit, he seemed to have appeared from nowhere, scrappy and eager as a ratting-dog. The Cour des Miracles, though no longer the place he called home, marked him as much as it made him nameless, and so Porthos was determined to make a name for himself,  _ by _ himself. Recruitment boasted a great many benefits, and with the English and Spanish scratching at the doors, France was eager for more men to put in the way of their enemies. Required to present a full title upon entering ranks, he had laughed to himself and replied, 

“ _ Porthos du Sept-Saulx _ .” 

Nevertheless, the infantry was not much kinder a life than the Court had been. The drills were a punishing affair, and the new cadets’ rosters were packed with make-work and chores that superiors doled out to allow themselves more time in the tavern. Still, Porthos would not be dissuaded from his -  _ his _ \- choice to soldier, and the military whetstone honed him into something near to a perfect weapon; too often he was still called mongrel, but Porthos turned their taunts on their heads. Said he, “if a third-or-fourth-son of a bourgeois insists on calling me a dog, then it is because I am loyal,” and he added, in a murmur, “and hungry, and dangerous.”

 

The young soldier’s first assignment was in Pau; and there in Pau, Porthos gained a commendation, breadth across the shoulders, and a long, thin scar that ran through his eye, which had the potential to render him unsightly, but instead made him more handsome.

“Why, those heretics would have taken an eye from you, surely you should take one back from them,” said M. Pierrault, a marksman in their line that served as their field surgeon. Porthos, like many, was not as devout a Catholic as one’s countrymen would have them seen; he bore no ill will in particular towards the Huguenots, but held no pity for them either. A Protestant could change his faith much more easily than a man could change his prejudices against another’s circumstances of birth, or so it seemed to him. 

 

His eighteenth birthday was spent at Montpellier, and had been a miserable affair; while by then he had long gained the respect of his brothers-in-arms, and a small party of them had intended to slip back to the tents with a cask of wine to celebrate, the entire camp found itself struck with illness, and the first fortnight of his new year was spent in a fever. Their supplies withered to scraps, as was the case with so many of Louis XIII’s sieges, and Porthos entertained the idea of becoming every inch the lean and cutthroat creature he would have grown into back in Paris.

“But I am no creature, unless we are all creatures of God,” he thought to himself, “and I shan’t have anyone say otherwise.”

 

At twenty, he returned to the capital with rank and title; Porthos had earned the name _Porthos_ _du Vallons_ for his exceptional service in the hilly South, and was offered a place in the Gardes Françaises, which he took without question; and it was here where he was first introduced to Captain Treville of the King’s Musketeers. M. Treville remained charming though he spoke with a Gascon edge, watched everything with hawkish eyes, and stood tall with all the confidence of a well-loved father of a hundred brawling sons who were each fiercely devoted to him. In return, he had a paternal pride and fondness for each and every one of them. Upon meeting the young Porthos, said Treville, 

“You’ve already a reputation,” and patted him firmly on the shoulder where each Musketeer wore their pauldron. “There’ll be a place for you amongst my men in no time, I’m sure.” Porthos was ignorant of M. Treville’s interest in him before their meeting. At that time he did not know what we as scholars know- that Treville had once served Henri IV with the men known as M. de Foix and M. Belgard, and indeed held a blood pact with them of complete secrecy- and believed this was his first appearance before the captain. 

 

(M. Treville recognised the young man almost immediately, though he had not heard the name of Porthos du Vallons before. In keeping with the rest of his life, it seemed, Porthos had not inherited much from his father; he was tall, and broad, but otherwise bore no real resemblance to M. Belgard. Rather, he took after the late Marie-Cessette in his countenance and complexion, if Marie had been some six feet in height, perhaps, and sported moustaches.)

 

The Easter of that year was bitterly cold throughout France, but nowhere so frightfully as Savoy, where the soil was packed hard as stone and every match-stick of wood was too damp from snow to catch fire, where no hearths burned bright and warm all day, and a hot meal was nowhere to be found off the beaten track. Pouring himself a cup of wine to take the edge off the chill in the garrison mess, Porthos saluted the backs of the unlucky men leaving for their drills in the Alpine foothills. To his left, a pale and thoroughly tired-looking young man turned his shaggy head to face Porthos. In the early morning light, his breath rose in plumes, which made him look even whiter.

“Pass the bottle, would you please, sir?” said he, dull under the eyes, and pink where the frost nipped at his face. Porthos wondered briefly if he was being spoken to by a corpse, though clearly a noble one at that, even in its current condition.

“Here, sir,” replied Porthos, obliging, and pushed the remains of the wine across the long wooden table. “Are you new to the guard as well?”

“I am,” replied the cadaver, pouring his cup with the steadiest hand Porthos had ever seen on a dead man, “and new to Paris, all the same.”

“Is that so?”

“Indeed.” 

“Where do you hail from, sir?”

“Picardy, sir.” (This was not entirely a lie, and Porthos did not know any better in order to question it.) “My name is Athos.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit more of the Dumas-esque for this one, and a bit more Porthos, because there needs to be more Porthos in this story tbh. (Also, apologies for sudden tumbleweeds and absence with updates, we've been experiencing some technical difficulties, ie. my laptop went bye-bye for a couple of weeks, whoops...)


	9. M. d'Herblay, pere et fils

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Excerpts from the journals of Abbé Henri-Charles D’Herblay of Béarn, c. late 1619._

It has been no less than a month since the girl Isabelle left Barétous, and poor dear René has been in such a state of melancholy since her departure that I gave him leave from the church until he was fit to serve again. In part, I admit, I did this so he would not have to face the scorn of some of the Brothers in his condition, for I know they would not understand his heart, and punish him for his actions; and so, he has spent the better part of the season so far at the family home. I have been retiring to visit him most evenings, and share a meal when I can. He spends most of his day in the library, and rarely leaves the house, let alone the grounds. Though my René has often been a rebellious boy, to see the spark within him snuffed out so- it hurts the heart tremendously. Would that I could tell him where his fiancée has been disappeared to, but I could not get a name from her father, and since the Béarnais Huguenots have been facing troubles of late, there has been little talk outside of argument within the clergy, and I have not been able to follow any leads as to a convent where a young Béarnaise may have been surrendered. Would that I could tell him a great many things, but I fear it would break his heart entirely.

 

* * *

 

René has returned to the church. I hope that being amongst his people will relieve him of some of his loneliness. It is wholly possible to find solace from grief in prayer and service, and while it shan’t bring back Isabelle- as it will never bring back any of our loved ones on this Earth- it shall bring him some small peace of mind, or at the very least a distraction.

 

* * *

 

After _vespers_ , Brother Gilles came up to me and said, “René is _growing a_ _beard_ , monseigneur.” I asked why he told me this, and Gilles replied, “vanity does not become a man of the cloth.” Vanity indeed, and yet here is one who finds it worthy of comment! I pressed Gilles further in the matter- to scold the lad for insubordination is one thing, but purely for having hair is absurd- and he said, “the women in town already look at him too much. Now we shall never get back from the market in good time.” I am unsure of how I managed to leave the room without laughing.

 

* * *

 

I am to return to Paris on business soon. It occurs to me now that I’m not sure who lives at the apartments on Rue Saint-Honoré these days. There is an account where the rent goes to, if I am not wrong. I shall have to take the money to the Filles-Dieu. I cannot bring myself to visit nor sell the place; I can only hope it is being kept in good stead.

 

* * *

 

I believe that today I have lost my son, and I weep as though he hath died. I am guilty of my crimes against my dear René. I cannot blame him, and I deserve no pardon for my actions lest it come from the Lord God himself; but it does nothing to ease the ache of loss, just as a knife cannot put back blood it has taken from the flesh.

 

* * *

 

I retired from beginning _matins_ to find René at the house- he had heard that I was to go to Paris from Brother Pierre, and asked if he could accompany me so that we might visit his mother. René had not talked about Estefana in some time, and for a fleeting moment I forgot she had ever left us, and that it would be perfectly well to take the lad to see her. It was but a moment; I said he must stay behind. I am glad we were at the house, for it became a heated argument, and one I would not have wanted others to overhear. René has always been a very passionate creature, and even after all these years of service and discipline, he could still have a terrible temper. “Fine,” said he, and turned his back to me, “I have no horse or money, but I am no prisoner here. I shall go by myself.” It was then that I finally divulged the truth to him- that dearest Estefana had passed some years ago. It was the first time I had ever said the words aloud, and each one barely made it past my lips. I should have never kept such a thing from him; from either of us. René asked, in great anger and sadness, if there were other secrets I had withheld from him, and when I did not - _could not_ \- say no, immediately, he howled, and wept, and I wept also. I wanted nothing more than to embrace my son and apologise profusely for my intrigues, but I did what I must, and produced the old box of his letters from when he was a boy; he held it like it contained a relic. I told him they had not been opened; that I had not seen what was inside his missives, and began to explain why they had been stolen away for so long. “Then they still have to be read,” was all he said, and left the room.

 

* * *

 

René has fled. He is his mother’s child, and only a fool would expect a different outcome. I believe he goes to Paris, and though I am bound that way myself I shall not beg him to return to Béarn, or drag him back to the mountains like a scolded child, but if I happen upon him or any-one who comes across him, I will give him the apartments and the money to do with as he sees fit. It appears we shall not know peace for much longer in the South. I can only pray he finds a semblance of it in the North.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: a road trip, and some (un)familiar faces.


	10. Correspondentia Diremptae, Part II; or, The Passing of Ships in the Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, is this thing still on...?

_ Porthos, _

 

_ All this time I believed myself to have been unlucky enough to have every letter lost in transit, or to have all my Parisian family abandon me. How foolish, how ignorant! And yet I suppose I cannot entirely blame myself for not knowing the truth. A cow raised for slaughter does not know its fate until the hammer drops upon his head, after all. But I digress! I endeavour to see you again, and any-one else who has survived- I trust you have survived, dear Porthos, if not in fact flourished. I am half a day from Béarn already, and only now have I been able to bring myself to read the words I once wrote to you. I do know know how long it will take me to reach Paris, or yourself, but I swear that all shall meet again in time. _

 

_R._   


 

* * *

 

René d’Aramits, a Parisian of widely speculated birth, no military aptitude in particular, and of eight or nineteen years of age, was a man of remarkably odd luck. His journey to Paris was halted quite abruptly in the city of Pau, where he encountered battle for the first, but certainly not the last, time. While there had been rumours and the occasional outburst in Barétous, he had remained sheltered from much of the goings-on in the world by the various men he had referred to as Father and Brother. Here, in Pau, it would have been impossible to miss; the citizens were in revolt, and René was quite sure that it was only his ability to appear as a man of religion that had kept all his limbs attached to his body. With his hood drawn up about his head, and cloak wrapped tightly to conceal his belongings, he made way to the nearest tavern; his being a stranger out on the street made him a flint amongst dry tinder.

“‘S blood, you’ve come at a terrible time,” said a surly and unimpressed patron, once René had settled himself at a table, “one never knows whether to trust a new face.”

“Oh!” René bowed and clasped his hands together. “Oh, my good sir! I am but on a pilgrimage, you see.” He produced a crucifix upon a rosary from within his cloak, taking care to move with purpose; to move too quickly might give his disguise away, and if he were to pull too firmly on the rosary, the thread might snap. He did not even consider that he may be seated across from a Huguenot until after he had spoken.

“Eh, what’s this about a pilgrimage? There’s naught here in Pau of any importance that I’ve heard of, and I’ve heard of a great many things.” René’s inquisitor had a heavy brow, upon which sat two wild tufts of grey hair that almost met into a single line, such was the strength of his suspicious frown; it required a great deal of the young man’s restraint to not comment upon his interrogator’s countenance.

 

“I mean no disrespect to your city, monsieur, but I am merely passing through.” In his mind’s eye, René pictured the maps and manuscripts in M. d’Herblay’s office. “I am on my way to Dax, as I intend to study there. Have you heard of Father Vincent de Paul? He, rather infamously, might I add, was ordained at a very young age; why, not much older than I!” René, now confident in his alibi, paused to compose himself. His interrogator’s furrowed, shaggy brow dropped wearily. 

“Very well, young man, eh, very well! If you choose to stay in Pau, you must be weary indeed, and should conserve your voice for prayer in Dax.”  

“A wise plan, monsieur, very wise. I shall retire to my room at once, and bid you a good evening.” 

 

The lodgings were a monastic affair, even by the standards of a novitiate. (The inn-keeper had explained that it was prudent to keep the rooms spare in difficult times, lest the furnishings end up stolen or broken.) With his belongings arranged at the foot of his bed, René went to make his evening prayers, out of more moral obligation than usual habit. No sooner had his knees touched the floorboard did a raucous noise begin in the corridor, and he sprung back to his feet.

“Monsieur! You daren’t tell me you have no hot water in this establishment?” Several pairs of boots stormed through the gangway. There was a reply, but René could not hear it for the bustling and thrashing about the thoroughfare. “If an honourable man loses an eye because of you, monsieur, then I shall see to it myself that you lose your head! Are you not also an honourable man? Fetch me a bowl of hot water immediately!” The argument- if one could call it that- lasted a moment longer, until the slamming shut of a door ended the dialogue. René realised then that he had crossed the room to press his ear against his own door, and the tips of his ears flushed pink from the shame of eavesdropping so eagerly; he stepped back quietly, and returned to prayer, crossing himself thrice for good measure.

 

While René had not been lying about his weariness after a long day of travel, it was a difficult night to sleep through. The comings-and-goings of men outside his chamber would rouse him each time he came close to a deep slumber. He thought to read by candle-light for a while, until he could not keep his eyes upon the page, but realised he had nothing with which to light the wick; however, there were no Brothers here to chastise him and send him back to bed, so René dressed himself approximately, and, candlestick in hand, went in search of a taper. At the end of the corridor, a figure paced back and forth, muttering to themselves in a tone of frustration. René made a sign of greeting, but was either not seen, or was being ignored. As he stepped closer, he perceived the figure to be a gentleman of perhaps some forty years of age. 

“Monsieur, excuse me,” began René, “but may I trouble you for a light for my candle?”

“Who asks this favour of me?” said the gentleman, halting his little march.

“No-one of importance, monsieur.”

“Very well, Monsieur  _ Personne _ . Wait here, and I shall fetch a light from my room.” He retreated behind his door for a short time, and returned with a sort of thieves’-lantern. 

 

“Many thanks, monsieur- ah, may I have the name of my saviour, sir?”

“Pierrault,” replied he, brusque but not unkind.

“Many thanks, then, Monsieur Pierrault.” René lit his candle, and its flame illuminated the face of man before him in far more enchanting detail than he had taken in before. Pierrault was rough-hewn but handsome, with the sharp blue eye and red hair like those of the  _ Écoissaise _ . He had a roguish and freckle-spotted face with high, ruddy cheeks, a pointed nose, a groomed beard and thick moustaches. Pierrault tied his hair back in a cord; and in his left ear there hung a single gold ring. 

“What need have you for a light at this hour, monsieur?”

“It is of no concern. I cannot sleep, and wish to read.”

“Hmm,” said Pierrault, folding his arms. “You are no-one of importance, doing nothing of concern, and yet you are here in Pau in the middle of a revolt.”

“I am to go to Dax to-morrow, sir, though if I may- you accuse me of something, perhaps, but you fulfilled my request. I am humbled by your generosity, M. Pierrault.” The gentleman laughed, and patted him heavily on the shoulder, nearly knocking the candlestick out of René’s hand.

“I accuse you of nothing but poor luck, stranger!” He chuckled to himself as if he had told a miserable joke. “I have been summoned to Pau by duty. You, sir, bear ill fortune to have stopped here by chance.”

 

René was intrigued. Was this a King’s  _ Écossais _ before him, or a Huguenot mercenary? He bore no recognisable arms, in a civilian’s plain-clothes.

“What, then, is your duty, sir?”

“I am a soldier under the Crown; Pau threatens treason.” Pierrault shrugged, and leaned back against the wall. “What is your misfortune, stranger? You say you go to Dax. Are you bound for the seminary or the guard?”

“Are those the only two purposes for which a man would go to Dax?” René felt a drop of hot wax fall upon this thumb; he had barely moved an inch since Pierrault had returned with his light. 

“A young man with a quick mind and a steady hand would do well in either.” Pierrault brought René’s empty hand out in front of him, and squinted with a focus that brought creases to the corners of his eyes. “Nary a quiver, you see. Would you see a pen, or a pistol put in it?”

The tips of René’s ears turned a fierce, rosy red. It had been a pitifully long time since he had last indulged his fantasies of chevaliers and adventurers; brave, gallant, handsome men who sought intrigue and romance- bound to the honour of their masters, or their lovers, perhaps, or free to wander all of France, to follow the winds of fortune. He imagined, then, in that moment, of wearing the colours of a fine regiment, armed with sword and  _ main-gauche _ and arquebus, at the side of M. Pierrault; the rough hand around his now firm on his shoulder and making his chest swell with pride. René turned from his reverie and composed himself before he spoke. A low groan of discomfort came from the room behind them; Pierrault frowned, and his countenance became dark with worry. René bowed and made to return to his quarters.

“I shall think upon it, Monsieur Pierrault. I thank you for your charity, and your counsel, and bid you a good-night.” 

 

After his unexpected meeting in the corridor, René found himself inspired, but incredibly weary. The effort of having fetched a light for his candle had been in vain, as he snuffed it the moment he climbed back into bed, half-undressed and heavy headed. He fell into the deep sleep of a sated young man, one who would rest well knowing that the day ahead would be full of promise. René’s dreams were occupied with his earlier fancy, of his becoming the heroic gentleman-at-arms; a fancy that had entertained him for so much of his youth, and had all but been extinguished in the last few years of his life in Barétous. In his dream, René rode a handsome horse that recalled to him the memory of a larger, but equally michievous Étienne. They cantered across Grenelle, slowing to trot as they reached the gates of his company’s barracks, back within the walls of Paris, his city, his  _ home _ . He dismounted Étienne II, handing the reins to a stable boy, and walked with his head held high, the feather in his hat as bright as a peacock’s in the morning sun. In the courtyard, he imagined he saw a familiar figure sparring; tall and dark-skinned with a crown of lambs’ curls. 

“My dear Monsieur  _ Personne _ ! It is good to see you have returned in one piece.”

Pierrault came to his side, and embraced him affectionately. Pierrault’s hair shone like spun gold, and smelled of smoke and leather and goose-grease. René pressed a greeting kiss to the cheek of his comrade and tasted salt. 

“I am glad to be back, Pierrault. Shall I tell you of my adventures?”

“Oh! Yes, you must, but first, let me see your hands, my dear.” They entered a small chamber, through a door that René had not noticed upon his arrival. “Are they still steady, and beautiful?” Pierrault held the young man’s hands out in front of him and turned them over so the palms faced up. 

“You think them beautiful, friend?” René watched Pierrault survey him, pleased that his hair covered his face in such a way that his blushing was not obvious. 

“As fine as a prince’s, my dear,” said Pierrault, and bowed his head to kiss them, a warm and whiskery touch of his lips that tickled as he moved away. René laughed, and then, gasped- Pierrault brought one hand to his face and kissed it again, open-mouthed, and the graze of tongue and teeth against his fingertips caused them to tremble.

“You flatter me, Pierrault,” René said softly. He cupped the soldier’s jaw in his palm, his thumb resting in the sharp, thick red hairs at the corner of his mouth. Pierrault made a quiet, agreeable noise, and curled his tongue around it; he drew it between his teeth, and bit gently upon the knuckle. “Oh,” said René, and woke with a start.

 

It was still an hour or two from dawn, he supposed, as he lay still in the bed. His clothes, which he had only partially removed, were damp with sweat, his hair in wild tousled arcs about his face and pillow. René blinked in the darkness, and sighed deeply. 

“What have you gone and done this time, foolish man,” he thought to himself, as he gingerly removed his shirt, “you must learn to, to- to… oh, zounds! It is merely a fantasy, it harms no-one!” More irritated than ashamed, René stripped his hose to his knees and took himself in hand. Here, in the solitude of this chamber, he need not lie still as a corpse, for fear of waking his peers and being punished for the act of indulgence. Nonetheless, he covered his mouth with his free hand, and eased himself back into the scene in which he played the young lover. He fancied his limbs to be Pierrault’s, with imagined scars and the hardness of a life of duty upon them; the lean, worn body of an honourable man upon him. René rolled onto his knees and elbows and brought himself off roughly, panting in short, hot breaths against the sheets. If Pierrault were truly an  _ Éccoisais _ , he would have a shaggy, red pelt across his chest and legs, René supposed, and thought of the way the hair would scratch and prickle against his spine, the small of his back, the backs of his thighs. He imagined the scrape of a beard and moustaches.. René curled his hand into a tight fist, and pictured every bare inch of his imagined lover- his freckled shoulders, his firm calves, the hard line of his cock pressed up against him, slick and heavy; he came with a soft, strangled moan, and sighed into the mattress, dropping as loose as a ragdoll. 

 

The gloaming had begun before he could bring himself to move, and shake the impure, but thoroughly enjoyable, scenario from his mind. René cleaned himself up as best he could, and slept without disturbance until almost ten o’clock. By the time he had packed his things and left his room, the regiment had already left the tavern. René entertained finding where the troupe had gone to, but he had made enough conversation about leaving Pau that day that his lingering presence would have been a cause for concern. He was in Orthez (and had entirely discarded his costume of a monk) before he realised that he was, in fact, not obliged to go to Dax; he bought a small amount of provisions and a decent knife, and headed in the direction of Mont-de-Marsan. René d’Aramits decided there and then, on the road that would lead him from Orthez, to Bordeaux, and to his beloved fair city of Paris, that he would join the Garde Française. 

 

Many accounts of his service take the reader back to the South, but still yet, we must follow the young Aramis (as he is soon known to be called) to the North.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> History time!
> 
> The Garde Écossaise: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Garde_%C3%89cossaise
> 
> Saint Vincent de Paul: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vincent_de_Paul (I slightly wrote myself into a corner with where to take Aramis on his road trip, and this dropped in my lap, more or less...)
> 
>  
> 
> (Also! Thank you if you're still reading this! The hiatus was unintentional. It's nice to be back.)


	11. In The Company of Mice (and Men)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _From the Journals of Sister Béatrix of Cathédrale Saint-Gatien de Tours, c. 1621_

It has been a very unusual few days, and I have not had the time to write about the events I shall now describe, but I must record them for posterity, if not for personal amusement! A line of  _ Gardes Françaises _ arrived from the capital late on the night of the Tuesday, and have only just set out this Sabbath morning- and to leave on the Sabbath, how cruel. I suppose it is not my place to question the orders of soldiers, but I think it foolish to send for good Catholics on the day of rest, when the Protestants observe it also. Tours has been quite over-run with them of late, as I imagine the same of Le Mans and Orléans; it seems all the able men of France are descending upon the South. “Why, Béatrix,” you ask, “how does a cloistered young lady know so much about the national politic?” and I should reply, “because men speak so very loudly when they believe nobody is listening.” And that is not to say that I make a habit of eavesdropping, but it is difficult not to hear what the boorish fellows have to say when they come marching through the Place de la Cathédrale at all hours of the day and night!

 

I shall begin on the evening of Tuesday. We- being myself, and Sisters Isabeau and Jeanne- were sweeping the floors of the nave when a pack, nay, I must call it a gaggle, for they were all young and as inelegant as geese, a gaggle of soldiers walked into the building as if they were late to Mass. Well! I am a patient woman, as God knows, and our halls are open to any who seek them, but I admit I did not entirely trust the intentions of these men. I looked to Isabeau (who is not known for her patience), and her face reflected mine with its traces of doubt. I turned then to Jeanne, but she did not notice, for she was watching the men with a profound sadness. Sister Jeanne is solemn at the best of times, but I could not help but to be concerned. “Sister Jeanne,” said I, turning my back to the men, “what troubles you?” She did not speak for several moments more. Sister Isabeau put down her broom and made to speak to the men; I could not hear what she was saying, but I imagine few words passed her lips, with how much she bit her tongue. Jeanne faced me, then, and said, 

“I feel as though I have seen a ghost, Sister Béatrix.”

A ghost! Well, I intended to ask more of Jeanne, but Isabeau returned, dusting her hands and folding her arms with all the satisfaction of a job well done. 

“Would you believe it, Sisters- they wished to attend prayers! I told them that had missed Mass by several hours, and they could come back to-morrow, unless it was an urgent matter.” I crossed myself, then, hoping that we had not damned the lads, but I did not wish to argue.

 

As sure as anything, the soldiers were back at the Cathédrale the very next day. There had been five of them on both occasions, one of whom I supposed to be the ghost that Jeanne had mentioned. It is impolite to press into these matters, but I did so only out of worry for my fellow Sister. They left again, in due course, to run drills or play dice or what-ever it is that young soldiers do when they are not under supervision. There were rumours that the regiment was waiting for news from Montauban before they moved on. Montauban is a week’s ride from Tours, which is far too long for a line of restless and armed men to be sitting on idle hands waiting for orders, as far as I am concerned, when the Devil finds work for them so easily. The rest of the day passed with little interruption, though our evening repast carried on for a good hour and a half, because Sister Juliette told us a delightful story of how she had been escorted home along the Loire by two handsome dragoons in great detail.

 

By noon on the Thursday, Sister Jeanne looked frightfully ill, and Mother Superior insisted she stay in the cloister. I offered to take her some soup, and to see if her condition were to improve, or if we should consult a physician. It was then that she related this to me:

“Sister Béatrice, I do not speak of it, but I had much of a life before I joined our order. I was once married, and then widowed. I had a child, and she ran away from home. I cannot tell you how long ago, for I must admit I have forgotten; but one of the soldiers who arrived in Tours just this week, he bears a remarkable resemblance to my departed husband, and our daughter! It strikes the heart like an old wound!” 

 

A husband! A daughter! Well, this revelation certainly explained much of Sister Jeanne’s character. I believe she entrusted this information to me as a secret, and so I have told no-one. But oh! Oh goodness! Perhaps this young man was some lost relative of Jeanne’s! I decided then that I would not interfere, for Jeanne was already very frail, but if I saw the young man again, that I would offer him counsel, and perhaps learn a thing or two about him. Not, of course, to satisfy my curiosity, but to put Sister Jeanne at ease, should she come across the lad again.

 

Upon the Friday, the men returned to church with a good portion of their regiment, and held Mass with the folk of Tours. I found the group of five near the transept, and etched their appearances into my mind. There were two black-haired boys, one brown, one blond, and a  _ roux _ . Of the five, only one or two had managed to grow moustaches successfully, and again, perhaps only two of them seemed acquainted with a comb, unless it is the style in Paris now to have such unkempt hair. I could not see the similarity to Sister Jeanne in any of them; perhaps one of the black haired boys? It is an open secret that Jeanne is a Spaniard, after all. After Mass, the group separated, and the brown-haired lad stayed awhile in his pew. I confronted the four, then, and said, “should you not wait for your brother, messieurs?” to which the blond replied: 

“if we waited for  _ monsieur _ , we would be here ‘til midnight, Sister.” (I call him  _ monsieur _ , for at that moment I was unsure if I had heard his name correctly.) The  _ roux _ explained to me then that their friend had spent a great deal of his youth within the Church, and would occasionally return to his old habits.

 

As for  _ monsieur _ ’s name, I did not ask again, as it would be rude, but I thought perhaps I could ask  _ monsieur _ himself. I believed his blond friend to have said it was ‘Aramitz’, which is surely uncommon for a Frenchman, and so it seemed unlikely that I had heard it correctly. I went to approach  _ monsieur _ , but when I was no more than fifteen paces from his side, there was a terrible cry from the west end of the Cathédrale. We both turned, he with his hand to his scabbard, to where the disturbance came from. 

“Who goes there?” asked  _ monsieur _ , and then said, “this is a holy edifice, show yourself!”

 

Well, as it happened, there was no intruder, other than a rat which had run over the foot of M. Pelletier (who lived at 17 rue des Tanneurs, and whom I had heard kept a mistress in Blois, which is not only a sin in itself, but far too close to home not to invite trouble, I think).  _ Monsieur _ offered to find a cat with which to chase down the offender, but Pelletier, rather embarrassed, merely shrugged and went his way in silence. To  _ monsieur _ , I then said, “bless you, sir, for acting so swiftly.”  _ Monsieur _ bowed low at the waist, with his foot forward in the manner of a gentleman, and to me said,

“It is of no trouble, Sister. It is a man’s duty to protect that which is good in the world.” He produced a crucifix from about his neck and kissed it. I shall not describe what  _ monsieur _ looked like in more detail, as I have had to repeat it more than once for the benefit of Sister Juliette, and I believe she would make sure that anyone with ears learned of  _ monsieur _ ’s appearance. Said I, as he stood before me,

“May I know your name, sir? For I would tell your Lieutenant that you have done a good deed this evening.”

_ Monsieur _ stood tall, and curled his moustaches (which were by far the best grown of his comrades). 

“I am called René d’Aramits, fair Sister; and may I know the name of she who commends me?” 

“I am Sister Béatrix,” I said, and then as a gentleman would take a lady’s hand, he took mine and kissed it! Who would have heard of such a thing, a Church-going dandy!

“Then I thank you, Sister Béatrix. I shall escort you back to your cloister, lest there be mice that seek recourse, or worse yet, revenge.”

 

Perhaps I should not write down the next part of this little story, for I suppose it could damn all involved, but it would seem lacking if I did not. I am a good woman, and I have been here at Tours since I was thirteen or fourteen, some seven years and counting. I am firm in my beliefs as a bride of the Lord God, and I do not concern myself with the affairs of men. And yet! And yet I found myself truly enamoured of M. d’Aramits, in the brief time I had come to know of him. He knew his scripture, and loved his God, and was to fight proudly for his country in Montauban; I could not think of better character to have imbued a man with. (And though I shall not, as I have mentioned, describe the appearance of M. d’Aramits, he was indeed very handsome.) We did not return to the cloister with haste; instead, we wandered a while around the courtyard. I asked when the men were to leave for Montauban, and he answered that it would be to-morrow morning. 

 

It is fortunate, in a way, that there was a terrible storm the next day, and the men could not push their horse-carts without them being tumbled about. While it delayed their departure, and I pray it did not affect the Gardes’ presence in the South, I imagine M. d’Aramits could have used a day of rest (as he did not sleep for much of the night of the Friday. Or the following morning).

 

On the Sabbath morning, we held an early Mass so that we could send out the regiment with God’s blessing. As I said good-bye to my new acquaintance, who had rejoined his little party of five, I saw Sister Jeanne begin to pale again. Isabeau took her by the arm and called for Mother Superior, and it was then that I believed I had solved the mystery of Jeanne’s relative. Good Lord in Heaven! I could not tell her my idea, for she was of a very weak constitution. To make matters worse, M. d’Aramits came to see what the commotion was about; he explained he was no physician, but knew some medicine from his scholarly years, and held his hand to her forehead to check for a fever. Jeanne nearly fainted from the shock of it all! I had to wonder if there had been a moment of recognition on both sides, in their meeting face-to-face. M. d’Aramits was shooed away by the Mother Superior, and by the time Sister Jeanne had returned to us, the regiment had left. I have been entrusted with much of Jeanne’s story, and so I shall treat this as my confession, and tell no-one other than God that which transpired between myself and M. d’Aramits. I hope that he fares well in battle, as I hope for all the men who protect France, and I shall pray for all their souls.


End file.
